


ASCII

by Sloan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, More tags to be added, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, mlm author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloan/pseuds/Sloan
Summary: The memory keeps flickering back to focus above all else. It’s been two weeks since Hank took him in. Two weeks since a warm embrace welcomed Connor to newfound personhood. Connor does not waste processing power thinking about the outcomes of his existence if Hank did not.





	ASCII

**Author's Note:**

> david cage can meet me in the pit but i love these two more than life itself at this point and these are just facts. adding to that, the entirety of detroit being evacuated over a couple of thousand of deviants does not make sense so that doesn't happen

The street Lieutenant Hank Anderson put down as his current place of residence is quiet. It’s listed as a family residential development on thirty year old construction proposition blueprints. Connor digs them up going deep into the city planning archives. As of two years ago the neighborhood changed its status to being in the process of active redevelopment. On official record only fifteen residents remain on site refusing to sell. The Lieutenant is one of them.

There are signs of the stragglers being flushed out. The streetlights are set on minimal power output, trash piles against lampposts and fences. The city council cut its funding to this part of Detroit by thirty one percent last year. Connor presses against the wall, flattening himself against the surface as much as his body allows.

His internal clock tells him its 7:14am - Sunday. It’s still dark. The forecast promises a 97% chance of heavy snowfall in exactly nineteen minutes. Strobe lights from parked vehicles flash against the frosted windows. Connor cranes his neck to find an angle where he can peer through the half shut blinds. Just enough to see the reflective strips of uniforms crowded around the front door. There are three figures - two men and a woman. The men are armed, the woman holds up a temperature scanner. Connor hears Hank from the other room begin to raise his voice.

“Do I look like one of those plastic pricks?!” He yells as Connor observes the representative taking a step back from the door and onto the front porch.

“It’s procedure, sir.” She says, momentarily dissuaded by the reaction.

“Procedure my ass, you come slamming on my door at 7am in the goddamn morning and shove lights in my face! I know my rights.” Hank continues. It’s an act, but there is a foreign tremble in his voice. Connor closes his eyes to divert all sensory input focus to his audio processing hardware. From thousands of soundbites stored in memory he concludes the closest emotional marker is distress. He never had the chance to register its presence in the lieutenant’s voice inflection. Connor’s LED flickers at the implication.

“The hell are you looking at?” The Lieutenant’s warning makes Connor snap away from the window. Just in time. The glare of a flashlight passes by the blinds, illuminating the bedroom in a pale clinical light. It makes several sweeps, the officer having trouble seeing anything worthy of prolonged attention. He can hear the shuffling of footsteps outside, looking for a better angle.

Connor uses the moment to sink to his floor, finding refuge in a corner between the wardrobe and the wall. No light reaches him here, but the officer is persistent. Connor chooses to fix his attention on Sumo instead. The dog followed him into the room at the first knock on the door. Connor has yet to come to a definitive conclusion on animal consciousness, but the Bernard makes its way to his feet and finds rest there, placing his muzzle on Connor’s thigh. There are no markers to observe if the dog understands, or cares, but it presses its bulky body close.     

“Treat this visit as a routine check. While we have no reason to suspect android possession, we are instructed to carry out searches in all districts of the city.” The woman’s voice filters through. “Mister Anderson, I would once again like to remind you that if you allow a home inspection we wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

“Pass.”

“Please state your reason.” Connor can hear the woman losing patience. Connor’s processes hitch. The only neighbor Hank ever mentions had her door kicked in only yesterday. They found a man just like Connor, took him away. Fined her. He brushes his hand against Sumo’s fur. The dog looks at him with its heavy lidded eyes.

“I have a 170 pound dog trained to keep strangers out.”

“While our officers are not civil servants, CyberLife holds a zero tolerance policy to threats aimed at their employees.”

“Just stating facts.” Hank says. “Now get off my property I’m not telling you shit.”

There is a pause. Connor freezes, all software processors diverting energy into probability calculation. If either of them made any mistakes these past few days the next moment will bring a kicked open door. Risk of violent deactivation. Detainment. Disassembly. The stressors of obsessive thought strain his systems more than anything else.

“Very well.” The officer says. Voice neutral. Connor snaps his head up at the mechanical chirps. Audio screening indicates the noise belongs to citizen registry scanner. The two men pace. The old wooden porch creaks under their weight. “I hope you have a pleasant Sunday, Mister Anderson.”

“Whatever.”

The door slams shut.

Connor wastes no time getting to his feet, forcing Sumo off. There’s a persistent hum of overworked fans cooling internal processors. Stress levels are calculated at 68%, it neither rises nor falls. He keeps to the shadows as he slinks out into the hall. The dog follows.

“It’s the third surprise inspection this week.” Connor states quietly, stepping into the living room. He lets the kitchen light hit his side, casting a long shadow stretching all the way to Hank.

The Lieutenant turns to him without a word, standing there in his nightshirt and boxers. Body language indicates moderate to high levels of agitation. Eyebrows furrowed he presses a finger to his lips, waving at Connor to kill the light.

The house goes dark, the two of them completely silent. Connor toys with the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing. It belongs to Hank; it’s too big, loose. Most of the time Connor feels like the fabric is trying to drown him, but its soft, warm. It smells like the Lieutenant and has Sumo’s hair cling to the fabric. There are three pairs of footsteps crunching in the snow outside as they walk away. Connor’s LED blinks. 

There’s a stretch of silence, even after the footsteps grow so distant they are drowned out by the hiss of the boiler and the noise of the TV.

“What did I tell you about moving before I give you the go ahead?” Hank gripes, rubbing his face. Connor realizes there’s no real heat behind his words. If the intent was to sound angry, Hank only comes off as exhausted.

“They’re suspicious.”

“Sure are.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Connor begins, brows furrowed, taking a step to his side so he may watch the parked trucks begin to drive away. There is nobody unexpected coming along with them today. “Did I tip them off in some way?”

“Who knows. I was assigned one of their bots for an investigation. They probably think it’s a lead. They’re right, but I’m not about to prove it.” Hank replies with a sigh. “Fuck its early…” He then says. A diversion from the topic at hand. A pattern in Hank’s communication. Connor watches him stretch; giving out a groan as he acts like he’s more interested in what’s flickering on the TV screen than the flashes of emergency lights tapering off down the street. Connor would like to understand why, but doesn’t press.

“You should go back to sleep.” Connor suggests once the Lieutenant throws himself down on the couch.

“That’s the plan.” Hank says with a smirk, eyes closed. He pats his stomach. Connor tilts his head at the action, not entirely sure what it means. It’s not meant for him as Sumo jumps on the couch and takes its place by the lieutenant’s side. “Don’t go opening any curtains. Keep the lights off too…” Hank mumbles, already drifting. Connor doesn’t reply.

He takes a seat in the armchair. Processes stabilize. The level of distress begins to ebb to manageable levels. It begins snowing outside. Seven minutes earlier than anticipated. He sits there long enough for the morning news to come on the TV. This year promises the highest snowfall count in recent years, they say. Android recall is still in effect.

* * *

 

The memory keeps flickering back to focus above all else. It’s been two weeks since Hank took him in. Two weeks since a warm embrace welcomed Connor to newfound personhood. Connor does not waste processing power thinking about the outcomes of his existence if Hank did not.

He runs diagnostics. The stream of data rushing in clean until it hits biocomponent #1936h. His central processor is flooded with mentions of internal errors and corrupted data. It is a non-essential part in android functionality, but the hole in his chest leaks Thirium – at least 10 millilitres per day if unchecked. In his earliest months of existence it would be classed as a low priority issue.

Daily professional maintenance is no longer an option.

“Connor, you’re tracking blue shit all over the armchair.” Hank interrupts him mid maintenance scan.

Connor blinks, raising his head to meet Hank’s voice. His optics take two seconds longer to come into focus than when last observed. Results flash, informing that his system runs at 56% of its originally intended efficiency. There are no available resources for optimization.

“I didn’t realize I’d be taking up the seat for long enough to do so.” Connor says, touching the hoodie to find it damp. Light filters through every window now, the snowfall replaced by a hazy, muted sunrise. He observes the pink hue to the world around him. A report chimes in stating maintenance was completed in two hours and sixteen minutes.

“You bled through it again?” Hank asks. Nose scrunched up as he stares at Connor from his spot on the couch. The look on his face is familiar to the expression he carries when observing a body at a crime scene.

“Believe me, Hank, it was not my intention to ruin your cushions.” Connor says, lips thinning at the sight of rich blue staining the back rest. It earns a laugh from Hank.

“You’re worse than Sumo.” The Lieutenant says, in a better mood than at the start of the morning, fondly ruffling Sumo’s ears. The dog makes a noise of annoyance, but doesn’t move from its place on its owner’s belly. “The moment I closed the front door and took off for work this damn dog had a go at his stitches. I came back to a horror show. Had to scrub blood off the carpets the entire night.”

“Thirium evaporates after several hours.”

“The smell sticks around.”

It is true. Hank describes the scent reminiscent of unscented hand sanitizer with traces of burnt rubber. It’s clear the smell distresses him. While Connor comes equipped with odor processors he holds no preference to deeming certain smells unpleasant. Deviancy did not change this aspect of his self.

“Come on let’s get you patched up.” Hank says, giving Sumo an encouraging push. The dog doesn’t move. Instead of doing anything more, Hank shimmies himself lose and lets Sumo take up the warm spot on the couch. “How come I have to keep doing this?” Hank asks, forcing down a yawn.

“Thirium is corrosive when exposed to the isocyanate found in the foam.” Connor answers, straightening his back. He gets a noncommittal hum from Hank, the likelihood of him no longer listening to what Connor has to say outnumbering the chances that he does.

Connor follows him to the kitchen, making sure to run his hand down Sumo’s side as he passes the couch. He sits down at the table while the Lieutenant begins brewing his coffee. Second to cheapest out of the selection offered in the store Hank shops at. Connor has informed Hank on multiple occasions that the grounds only contain 78% coffee bean.  

“I would prefer if a permanent solution would become available faster.” Connor adds. That part Hank picks up on, turning from the kettle to look at Connor staring him down from his spot at the table.

“Hey, listen I’m already calling up every shady idiot that knows how to use a wrench. You’re too new.” Hank curses, dumping the grounds into his preferred cracked cup. “Leave it up to Gavin to aim out his ass and hit something important.”

Connor finds himself smiling at the mention of Detective Gavin Reed. The memory of Hank bent over the steering wheel of his car, scribbling down insincere well wishes on a card meant for the detective, takes precedence above all else. Connor did not find a reason to ask if the man is doing better after his unfortunate encounter with a deviant in the evidence room. He realizes now that the disinterest is him - as Hank put it - not giving a damn.

“Right. Get on up I’m not gonna kneel.” Setting down the sealant on the table Hank moves to tie his hair. Connor focuses on the expanding foam. Store brand. Cheap. Another recognized pattern regarding the Lieutenant. There’s relief as well as distaste with the type of maintenance he’s been living with. At least the foam melts away in days and cannot do permanent damage. He appreciates being allowed to keep himself cognitive during the process.

Connor gets up on the table, legs free to swing without touching the kitchen tiles. Conditioning integrated into his base code feeds old video data of sterile labs. He wonders about the engineers responsible for his existence. He knows all of them by name. How would they react to seeing this? A detective that never figured out self-driving cars has his fingers in CyberLife’s most advanced prototype to date.

Would there be any resentment if they knew Connor prefers him.

Pulling the hoodie off, he’s faced with peeling off another layer of soaked ace bandaging. His LED gives a flicker once he figures out Hank placed the clips at his back, out of his reach. “Hank.” Connor requests, annoyed at the lack of function to the arms he’s been given.

“Greatest creation, huh?” The Lieutenant gives a chuckle, pinching the bandage free and letting Connor undo the rest while he goes to turn the boiling kettle off. 

The feeling of air exposure to internal hardware is not something Connor will ever be comfortable with. The hole left by the bullet slicing through his chest isn’t getting bigger or smaller, rot and mending is strictly an organic process. It isn’t a source of pain as well, but diagnostics hound him with blaring warnings. His Thirium pump rests five inches down. It is susceptible to rhythm malfunction when left bare to warm, dry air.

Hank sets the cup of black coffee next to him. Throws in four sugar cubes, forgets to stir. The bun he tied is messy, gray strands falling onto his face. He only ties it back when he’s working in continuing Connor’s functionality. A tick signifying apprehension at his own lack of experience. Connor waits until Hank bends closer to have a look at the damage and curves the Lieutenant’s loose hair behind his ear. The symmetry is satisfying. 

“Stop messing around.” A warning. Connor forgets about the Lieutenant’s strained relationship with physical proximity.

"Your hair is getting in the way."

“It does that.”

Connor registers the foam expand and clog the cut tubing in the damaged cavity. Diagnostics produce lines of data carrying warnings of multiple detected obstructions. Low priority, more interest is diverted to Thirium pump pressure stabilizing. Hank places his hand on his bare shoulder for support and to keeping Connor from fidgeting. His actions go against his earlier warning against physical closeness, but Connor says nothing, eyes fixed on the sight as his internal processes light up with new sensory data. The contradictory nature of the Lieutenant and his species has been registered at Connor’s first system start up, but it doesn’t make it easier to process.

“What happened to Sumo?” Out of hundreds of questions Connor picks the one he deems the Lieutenant will object to the least. The ones he truly wants to ask get set aside for a situation Connor can deem appropriate. It may be never.

“Tumor. Before you run your statistics, it was a year ago and he’s doing fine.” Hank says as he sets aside the sealant, done with his improvised repairs. Connor gets a new roll of bandaging handed to him. A new shirt too. This one shows off a heavy metal group which disbanded in 2005. “Just getting up there in years.”

“The median lifespan for Saint Bernards is seven years.”

“So?”

“I don’t know.”

* * *

 

Evening news talk about the upcoming date for congress to go into session. Thinkpieces on synthetic life are called into question. Debates are held in criticism of CyberLife’s aggressive recall policies. Representatives defend their platforms. Elijah Kamski’s most recent interview gets dissected. Preplanned shortages of thirium and spare synthetic parts are announced to go into effect as of Monday. The last CyberLife store in Detroit closes its doors the week afterwards.

It’s all going nowhere.

Hank voices it before Connor needs to.

They sit in the living room. Hank drinks. Connor tells him he shouldn’t, but in all instances of Connor repeating himself Hank never listens. The self-destructive tendencies Hank wears like a badge of honor remain. Measured alcohol intake indicates the Lieutenant’s addiction has gotten worse. All evidence points to Connor’s presence in his home, at the current political climate, being the cause for the negative change. Connor does not address it.

It starts snowing again. Hank complains about keeping the driveway clear, the cold, and Sumo’s arthritic paws. The topic of Canada comes up. It happens consistently enough to become a pattern. There’s nothing new being said that they haven’t discussed before.

The screening process at security checkpoints is extensive. Impossible to cheat without inhabiting a body of flesh and blood. Even if the absurd was possible, he has no documentation indicating he is anything but a name for an unsuccessful project given at an assembly plant. No money. No security beyond a two bedroom home on a street set to be demolished in three years’ time, and a binge drinking police Lieutenant that comes along with it.

Everything hangs in perpetual uncertainty Connor has never encountered. There is no code to simulate anxiety at an uncertain future; it is a learned experience, strains of alien data disrupting the base code Connor began with. It is not something he can remove, he tried. Whoever he is now, the system he inhabits refuses hardwired change. There is no escape from admitting he fears loneliness. Connor sits next to a man who dozes as they watch a rerun. His knee bumps against Hank’s. First, on accident in misjudged proximity. Now, because Hank does not voice any disapproval. The Lieutenant is far more perceptive than Connor initially profiled him to be. If he knows why Connor stays, he doesn’t show it.

Connor entertains the idea that Hank might be motivated by thoughts similar to his own.

The Lieutenant’s phone buzzes. Connor peers at Hank who has his eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. Its seventeen minutes past midnight, far too late for anything but work. Keeping true to Hank’s character, Connor picks it up with the intention of swiping decline. He pauses at the unknown number on the screen. Running a search comes up with nothing. Indication of a burner phone.

The call finishes before Connor can decide on the best course of action. It only lasted twenty seconds. The screen turns off and Connor is left staring at his own hazy reflection, unsure why he cared in the first place.

In his two weeks of staying with the Lieutenant, Connor has registered only one non work related call.  Not even a full minute passes until the phone’s small light begins to blink blue. It’s locked; the new message bubble showing up as blank. A security precaution set in place by the Lieutenant. It should act as a deterrent, but Connor’s processes already found five ways of working around this particular encryption.

He gently takes Hank’s limp hand, swiping his index finger against the phone’s sensor. It takes Connor three tries for the screen to unlock. Once it does he’s met with a picture of Sumo chewing on a table leg, acting as Hank’s home screen backdrop.  Eyes dart to the coffee table before him, the damage done in the photo is still present.

Resisting the urge to look at anything else but the newest message received Connor leaves the 285 unread emails alone. He clicks the text without thinking. He is sure Hank will understand once he explains it in the morning.

The single chat bubble simply reads: _part 1936 ready_.

Connor’s LED lights up.                                    


End file.
